Sevensworn

II. The Dreamweaver

It wasn't difficult to retire early without raising suspicion. Acaeus was still off in some remote corner of the keep, and Wynne had gone back to her work soon after their conversation. It was a simple task to find a bed in the keep not marked with the binding sigil that kept his soul from wandering—he knew that the moment he closed his eyes, he'd be greeted by the familiar face of Shivaroth, for better or worse.

He didn't have to worry about anyone finding him, and even if they did, pulling a Dreamwalker from their sleep could be a dangerous, life-threatening ordeal—no one would be bothering him.

His boots echoed in the empty corridor. He glanced back over his shoulder as he fumbled with the door's ivory handle, shutting the thing tightly behind him. The dim light of the rising moon gave him just enough of a view of the room to allow him to make it to the bed without any difficulty. He didn't bother removing his clothes—he didn't plan to sleep long. He simply checked for the sigil on the wall, a binding circle surrounding a sharp-edged willow tree, and upon finding none, fell into the bed and shut his eyes.

It was not long before sleep claimed him. There was a familiar tug in his chest, one that occurred when something beyond his body was calling to his soul, and when he next opened his eyes, it was not to the dim stone walls of Solthorne.

When he turned, his eyes landed on an open expanse of stars covering a splash of purple sky, the signature endless night of Serenvah, the dream realm. A gentle breeze blew back the branches of willow trees beside him, and the tug in his chest drew him forward, to a path in the tall grasses that he had walked many times before.

A voice joined the wind.

"Dear one," it said. "You are not supposed to be here."

"I will leave if you wish, Shivaroth."

There was a brief hesitation. In a tone that made it clear that he was going against his better judgment, Shivaroth spoke. "I will not turn you away."

Beneath the stilted conversation sat the ease of those that had known each other for years⁠—while for any other god it would have been only the blink of an eye, Shivaroth had been young when they met, only slightly older than Ronan and recovering from the death he had suffered and the near hundred-year stasis he had entered to be reborn. He and Ronan had grown up together, so to speak; seven years was significant to them both. Despite his outspoken distrust of the rest of the Seven, he had always found Shivaroth remarkably bearable.

When he reached the end of the path, he pushed through the curtain of willow branches and looked around the familiar hollow they had shielded.

There was a lazy waterfall to his left and a field of soft grass beneath his feet, with stone idols strewn about the clearing and moonlight streaming down through the forest canopy. It was just as beautiful as he remembered it—and in the middle, with everything revolving around him, was the Dreamweaver himself.

He looked just as he had when Ronan had seen him last—blue skin, hair that danced around his shoulders as if he sat underwater, black eyes that looked like they held the stars. There were gold earrings hung on his pointed ears, simple yet eye-catching. Along with the elegant red tattoos that adorned his shoulders and chest, Shivaroth was the very image of beauty.

"Now," Shivaroth murmured from where he hovered leisurely a few feet off the ground, his legs crossed and his hands resting against his ankles. The two red lines tattooed over his eyelids, no thicker than Ronan's little finger, creased as he furrowed his brow. "Are you going to tell me why you are looking at me as if I am a stranger?" Nothing in his eyes spoke of anger, only curiosity, as if the last few months of silence had already been forgotten. Ronan took a few more steps forward before lowering himself onto the soft forest floor, breathing in through his nose and watching the willow branches sway. At his silence, Shivaroth inclined his head, giving him a sad smile.